spider's satchel.

Rafael

Couple days before Christmas and girl gets a text:

Wanna come over tonight?

--
Girl shows up whenever she does. Maybe after work. Maybe wolf sends a car to pick her up, maybe she takes public transpo. She has her own key, regardless; can let herself in. House smells faintly of whatever rich hearty meal wolf had for dinner. Lights off downstairs, but upstairs hallway is lit.

She finds him in his room. He's in shorts and a very white, very fine shirt -- wing collar, top three buttons accented, sharply pressed. It's obviously a shirt you'd wear under a tuxedo jacket, and there on the bed, in fact, is the rest of the ensemble. She's never, ever seen him trying on formalwear before. Most times he seems to wear it only when absolutely necessary -- and then, with utter disdain and discomfort.

Glances over at her when she walks in. "Hey," he mutters, buttoning buttons. "We're taking your mom to the mountains, right? She gonna mind if we do like a party for the locals? Apparently my mother used to do something around the solstice. Like... throw a goddamn ball for her subjects."

Devon

Got home from Thanksgiving. She crashed with him for a night or two before retreating. Surely he of all people gets it, even though his longing for solitude doesn't always apply when it comes to her. Devon needs space. Devon sometimes needs time alone that is more or less entirely alone. Like a woodsy crawlspace all to herself in a graveyard. Like a room at the top of the house, looking out over the street. Like a residence where there isn't a wolf nearby, one who loves her and one she knows wants her to be close.

But the month between holidays goes by exceedingly fast, and ends up nearer and nearer to the winter solstice, and then to Christmas. Soon enough the year itself will be over. And Devon is around plenty in that almost-a-month. She comes over. She stays over. He stays over. They have had a few of their strange and sometimes out of nowhere arguments when their introversion and aversion to talk and their easily hurt feelings smash together awkwardly and painfully. They pass.

On the solstice, just a couple of days ago, Devon celebrated alone, and then she came over. She brought him a little chocolate cake -- very little. She lit candles all around his place and climbed on top of him after they drank and ate and had sex with him on that comfy chair he likes so much. In the morning she gave him a raw chunk of citrine, and left it on his nightstand.

Now it's Wednesday, and he asks if she wants to come over, and she says yeah and not that long after she arrives. She lets herself in and drops her keys in her bag and climbs up the stairs, wearing some of her big clompy boots and wearing leggings with lightning bolts all over them and some long black mesh tank top over a tighter, solid black tank top, and lots of necklaces and bracelets and heavy eye makeup and pale, glistening lip gloss. Her hair is straightened. She must have left her coat or hoodie or whatever downstairs.

Drops her bag inside his bedroom door, raising an eyebrow at his shorts and tuxedo shirt getup.

"Yeah," she says, to his question. Then she thinks about it before she answers. Can't ask her mom now -- she'll be landing at DIA in like two hours, hopefully able to sleep before they go up to the mountains tomorrow.

Devon shrugs one shoulder. "It's probably cool. If not, I'll just hang out with her while you --" hoity-toity voice: "'throw a ball for your subjects'."

Rafael

Wolf frowns at the thought -- "Don't want you guys hiding in the attic or something while fifty strangers have a party in the rest of the house. Just thought maybe your mom'd like it. If she doesn't wanna, I'll have Gerard reschedule it for later."

Buttons done up, he comes toward her. Cuffs are still open. Ends of his sleeves flop against her shoulders as he puts his hands on her face, cups her head, kisses her. Must've been in a scrap lately: still got some scratches and bruises, rapidly healing.

"What's your mom like to eat? Do?"

Devon

Devon smirks and gives a little roll of her eyes at his thought of them hiding in the attic. But he seems disgruntled, genuinely unhappy, and she wrinkles her brow, shakes her head. "Don't do that."

He comes toward her. He's roughed up. She notices but doesn't comment. He touches her; she lifts her face up, still smirking. He kisses her; she grins a little into it, kissing him back. Slings her skinny arms around his neck, bracelets jangling.

Shrugs at him. "Sounds like stuff you could ask her tomorrow on a three hour drive we have to take together."

Rafael

"Just want to get it right," he says -- stubborn about it for no reason he can easily explain. "Want her to have a good time. Never been to Denver before, has she?"

Devon

"No," Devon confirms, still dangling from his neck. "But it's all right. She'll like it. She'll like you."

Rafael

He gives in: puts an arm around her waist. Skinny thing, he thinks, grumpily and fondly at once. "Not just that," he mutters. "Want her to be happy here. Been through a lot. Both of you."

Devon

Devon's head tips. She doesn't answer. Just looks at him for a while, thinking. Perceiving. Then says: "Mum won't have a nice time if she thinks she doesn't fit in. And you didn't tell her about the party, so she won't have packed a nice dress or shoes."

Her eyebrows lift, her fingernails stroking the back of his neck. "Didn't tell me about it either, point of fact. So the bag I packed for tomorrow doesn't have a fancy dress in it, either."

Pokes him gently in the chest with one finger. "That's only two percent prick, though."

Rafael

"Oh." Looks taken aback Didn't think of that. Nevermind he's standing there trying on a goddamn dinner jacket to make sure he'll look decent and non-barbaric for girl and her mother; never thought about girl and her mother not wanting to look like underdressed slobs themselves. "Can just put it off. Or maybe ask her if she wants to buy a dress and have a party. Won't tell her something's already planned. Don't want her to feel like she's ruining it for everyone or something."

Devon

Devon quirks a brow, smirking at him in that lopsided, easy way she has. She's anxious for her mother to get here. She misses her. Always misses her. Talks to her at least once a week, and usually more. Sometimes Rafael is around when she calls her mum, listening to one side of a conversation that flits between two different languages.

"I'll wear the gold thing," she says, since it's just sitting there in her closet, hasn't been worn since that first thing he took her to. "She and I can shop tomorrow. We'll just drive up later than we were going to. Don't put it off. That screws over lots more people."

Rafael

The gold thing. Wolf frankly doesn't remember which dress that is. Remembers buying her dresses, though. Plural, he thinks. Remembers how she looked in those dresses. Hot, he thinks. Just doesn't remember the details, like the color and the cut and where exactly what was worn.

Remembers that night in the museum, sure. Remembers that hand-mirror he bought her on a ridiculous whim. Not because that's what you do when you have a mistress from the peasantry, but because he liked her. A lot. And he hardly ever knows how to show it.

"Yeah?" He looks at her, wants to be sure. Wants her to be sure. "Okay." Wraps his arms around her tighter, grips her ass, pulls her up on his body for another kiss. Lets her down.

"Gonna try the rest of this get-up on," he says. "Then I wanna show you something."

Devon

He'll remember the gold thing when he sees it. The tight, low-cut, short-skirted gold thing that made him roll up the partition and try to fuck her on the way to the Denver Art Museum. He'll remember taking it part of the way off of her when he finally did get to fuck her. Or maybe he won't: maybe he'll just like how she looks. Remember that he likes her. Wants her. And wants to show her that he likes her, and doesn't always know how.

Doesn't seem to matter at the moment. She's dangling from him, leaning against him, and she doesn't seem too worried about the party or the shopping. She's worrying a little in the back of her mind about how her mom will feel, if she'll be tired, and so on. She doesn't bring it up.

She smirks at him, rolls her eyes gently. "Yeah," she insists, confirms. He says okay. He scoops her nearer, kisses her, and she drowsily accepts it, returns it passionately. Smiles at him when he draws back, lets her down. "Think you look fine," she says, gesturing to his tuxedo shirt + boxers combo.

Rafael

"Heh. That's 'cause you're fucking me."

Lets go of her, going back to the bed to step into his slacks. Zips and buttons them up, picks up the jacket. While he's sliding it on he walks into the bathroom.He fiddles with the sleeves, the cuffs, tugs the lapels to smooth the line of the shoulders. Feels like James fucking Bond checking out the fit on that thing. Feels like he's looking at a stranger, still.

But a little less every time.

"Think it'll do," he says. Starts taking everything off again. "Come on." Hands occupied with pulling the jacket off, he nods her toward his closet.

Devon

To that: she snorts. And he heads off to go dress himself, and she flops on his bed, taking her phone out and fiddling with it for a while. He dresses himself up in a tuxedo and she mostly just ignores him until he comes back out, dressed to the nines, looking like a super-spy. Her eyebrows lift.

"All right," she says, slowly sitting up, as he nods at his closet. She scoots to the edge of his bed and hops down, following him over. "Want to show me your t-shirts? Did you get one that isn't grey?"

Rafael

"Some are brown," he retorts. Hangs the jacket back up, untucks the shirt, gives the legs of his pants an instinctive tug up as he crouches. Pulls something out from the bottom shelf of the closet organizer. It's a messenger bag, unremarkable, not even terribly stylish. He stands.

"Ran into some trouble the other day. Picked this up when the dust settled. It's a ... a magic bag. Holds three times as much as it should." Unclasps the flap, opens it. Holds it out to her. "You want it?"

Devon

He pulls out a messenger bag. It's not his style at all, even if he ever carried a bag or more than a wallet shoved in his back pocket. Devon tips her head as he draws it out and shows it to her. Trouble, he said. He doesn't mention that he came so close to death that he was hanging on by a thread. Doesn't mention how long it took him to really heal up. Just 'trouble'. And he picked up a thing. This thing. Which is magic.

She blinks, and her hands move to take it, look at it. She peers into it, and it looks sort of normal, but isn't. It does seem bigger on the inside, somehow. She narrows her eyes, pressing her hand into it a few times, searching for the bottom, and her arm nearly vanishes. She blinks again, taking it back out, looking up at him.

"Don't you?"

Rafael

"I got cars. And drivers. And I can always bind stuff to myself. Don't got enough gear to need more room, really." He's still holding it out. Pushes it toward her a little more. "You should take it. Figured you could put your witch stuff in it. Maybe some stuff to keep yourself safe."

Devon

Her brow wrinkles. They're both holding the bag. It's mostly against her chest, but not entirely. "But... will you get in trouble? It's not... it's a wolf thing."

Rafael

Wolf frowns. Shrugs. "Don't think anyone's gonna check to see where my bag went, or how big your bag is. Anyway. I'll look after it every so often. Keep the spirit happy.

"Do you want it? Want you to have it, if you do."

Devon

She doesn't really know. If she carries it around, will they be able to sense it? Will wolves come sniffing at her because she's carrying something magic and snarl in her face? Will they drag Rafael in front of some sort of primitive tribunal and growl at him, humiliate him, punish him on her account? She doesn't know if they'll check to see.

He mentions keeping the spirit happy and she blinks at him. She doesn't even answer his question yet because she wants to know: "Spirit?"

Rafael

"Yeah." There's a hint of duh in his tone. He hears it. He pulls it back. "Wolf magic is spirit magic. We're ... half-spirit. All the stuff we do -- shifting, healing, gifts -- comes from the half of us that's spirit. When we make stuff like this, we bind friendly spirits to ordinary things. They live in the thing -- the fetish -- and make it magical.

"So you have to keep them happy. If you don't, they get angry. Then you get a cursed fetish."

Devon

Wolf magic is spirit magic. He can see the comprehension in her eyes. She does get it; her family knows spirits, attends to them, welcomes them into the home. And the idea of binding a spirit doesn't seem that outlandish to her, but she didn't know what this bag was called. Or how it was made. It's just... a magic bag.

So she gets it. And then he tells her that she's holding a bag with a spirit inside of it and she blinks, looking down at it. Yes, it could get cursed. So he'll take care of it and make sure it doesn't.

"What kind of spirit is it?" she wants to know. "How do I make sure it... doesn't get mad at me?"

Rafael

"Um." He doesn't know. "I think maybe a ... a hamster? Or a kangaroo? I don't know. Maybe a spider. It's called a spider's satchel. I think you just treat it like something you care about. Like your favorite bag. Don't throw it around or drop it in a mud puddle or dump coffee in it, I don't know."

Devon

Good thing she's not scared of spiders. She listens, attentive, and then seems amused. "But... babe." She looks a little hesitant, still. Even though she's holding it. Even though she's clearly wanting it.

"It's yours, yeah?"

Rafael

"Yeah." He's puzzled, a little defensive. "Didn't steal it."

Devon

Devon blinks at him, frowns at him. "I wasn't saying that," she says, defensive in her own right now. "Just... don't know why you don't want it. Since it's yours."

Rafael

Wolf grunts. Comes a step closer; a sort of subtle physical reconciliation. Puts a hand on her shoulder, outside of her arm.

"Do want it," he says. "Just want you to have it more. Don't need it. Think you could use it."

Devon

She smiles up at him when he comes nearer; it isn't intentional. She doesn't think there was a schism -- could have been, they came so close to real misunderstanding. She doesn't think they need reconciliation. He comes closer and she smiles because she likes him. He touches her and she smiles because it feels nice; he's always so warm.

"You're nice," she says quietly, like if words gets out about this fact, they're all in trouble. "I really like it."

Rafael

Her smile still gets him. Every single time. He gets this look on his face, caught off-guard and starstruck, doing his best to play it cool. Quirks a half-smile. "Yeah? Good. You gonna keep it then?"

Devon

He was much better at playing it cool when every time she turned him on or fascinated him or existed near him, he just scowled at her and said or did something mean instead.

He sucks at playing it cool now.

Devon grins. "Yeah."

Rafael

"Good," he says again. Relinquishes his hold on the bag. She's right: he sucks at playing it cool now. Look at him: he's grinning. "Put it on, lemme see what it looks like on you."

Devon

Devon scoffs at him. She shakes her head, grinning to herself. He's silly. He's silly when he's happy and she thinks: she doesn't get to see him happy much. More these days. Like maybe when she told him that she didn't really know how often she makes him happy, he heard her. He didn't like it. He wants to change it.

But she checks the strap, its length, then slings it over her head, across her middle. The leather has a vintage look, just as grey as brown, but it's meant to be; the leather isn't actually cracked, weathered, worn down. It suits her. No wonder he thought of her when he saw it.

"Thanks, babe," she murmurs, lifting up on her toes a bit to put her arms around his neck.

Rafael

Does suit her. Suits her holey sweaters and her clompy boots and her strange thrown-together hanging-off-her-narrow-frame attire. Suits her wandering rootless mooching lifestyle and suits her messiness, the wreck she makes of every room she stays in. Of course he thought of her. Then again: he always thinks about her.

His arms close around her mid-back. Hug her close. He mutters something like a welcome, gives her a squeeze. Then his arms loosen again.

"Should get dressed," he says. "Go get your mom from the airport."

Devon

While he's hugging her, leaning down around her, Devon turns her head and nuzzles his cheek, that spot where his jaw turns up to his earlobe. She smiles against him, temple against his face, for a moment. "Yeah," she says. Of him. Not her. She is dressed. Rafael is not.

Looks up at him, when they slip apart. "Gonna go check on the second room, yeah? Make sure it's ready for her tonight."

Rafael

"Yeah, sure." He stays where he is; she moves out of his orbit. "Had the maid clean it up a bit. Hasn't changed much since you were there though."

Devon

"All right," she says, her hand lingering on his arm as she draws away, then losing contact. She heads out of his bedroom and across the hall to the room that was ostensibly hers. The room that perhaps is still, in Rafael's mind, sort of hers. Waiting for her if she wants it. She checks it out. She makes sure everything is clean and orderly and nice and comfortable. She checks the bathroom to make sure there's toilet paper and little toiletries in the shower and so on. She knows her mum will only be here for a night, but it matters to her.

When she's satisfied with the arrangement of the room itself, Devon digs into her own bag, not the one he just gave her which she is still wearing, and finds the small white organza drawstring bag she made earlier. Turning to the bedroom door, she traces its outline with the bag in her hand, as though drawing a second door in midair. She goes to the window and holds the bindle up to catch what light is still coming through. She carries the bindle to the bed and touches it to each pillow for a prayerful moment. And finally, she gets down on her hands and knees and wriggles half of her body under the bed, completing her methodical yet reverent magic by placing the bag right in the center of the floor beneath the bed.

She covers it with her palm for a moment, eyes closed, thinking of her mum. Thinking of her mum meeting a werewolf not for the first time, but for the first time in a long time. Thinking of her mum staying in the den of a wolf, and a big scary one at that, trying to sleep. She thinks of how much she loves her, and how much she loves Rafael. She thinks about how sometimes just being around him takes an extra measure of will and some kind of inner light that her mom doesn't always have on reserve. She tries to make a gift of it.

There is no real magic from her. There is not that feeling in her forehead or the tension in her neck or the tingle across her skin that comes from her true gifts. She knows that difference, even if she doesn't really care about it much. She knows that she can't really let her mum borrow her spirit or strength of will by putting a witch's bag of protective, graceful magic under her mum's bed. That is why, after Devon has wriggled out from under the mattress, she takes out a second item from her bag and puts it on the nightstand. It's a bottle of lotion, enough to last for the whole trip, and it's the sort of scent her mum likes, and it's a sort of magic she felt vibrating and singing in her veins as she crafted it. This magic, unlike the bindle, will put her mother at ease and settle her nerves and strengthen her backbone every time she rubs it on her hands or arms or legs or feet, which she will a lot, because Denver is dry. This magic will absorb through her skin and surround her with a sort of white light, a gentleness and ease that Devon wishes so passionately for her.

She smiles, and turns out the light as she leaves the bedroom, satisfied that her mum will like it here, and like being around Rafael, without her pesky humanity dragging her down too much.

Comes back over to Rafael, and to the bedroom she'll be staying in tonight: his. She finds him and loops her arms around his waist. "You ready?"

Rafael

He doesn't know what small magic she works in the spare room, which was her room for a while, which will be her mother's room tonight. Solitary as he is, it doesn't even occur to him that girl's mother might not have the stamina of will to withstand his presence. Mostly, he's thinking about the silly logistics of it all: what food she likes, what she wants to talk about, who should sit where in the car tomorrow. All that.

Girl comes back, finds wolf pulling on his jacket. He's in jeans again. He's in that motorcycle jacket again. He's in a t-shirt, but look: it's not grey! It's brown. He told her he had brown shirts. Her arms go around his waist. His arm slings around her shoulders, casual and familiar. "Yeah," he says. "What should I call your mom? Mrs. Paredes?"

Devon

Her mum likes Brazilian food more than Boston food and Boston food more than English food but she's found more food in London that isn't English than she could find in Boston, so she's happy there. She likes to listen more than she likes to talk, and is a very good listener to boot who asks good questions. When she does talk, she likes to talk about music, mostly: she goes to the symphony when she can, and she likes ballet and theater. She sings along to musicals, but Rafael will not find this out or hear it unless he gets her very drunk or gets to know her for much longer than a couple of weeks.

And obviously, she and Rafael and Devon will all sit in the back together with Devon in the middle, and maybe at a rest stop someone will switch into the front to have a bit more room, and maybe that will be Rafael so that mother and daughter can have even more time together, for they are so long and so often separated, and he may look in the rearview and see Devon leaning against her mother's side, her mother's arm around her shoulders, while Devon fiddles on her phone or shows her mother pictures of Thanksgiving.

Meanwhile, every time she takes out her little bottle of lotion her daughter made and rubs it on her hands, mentioning how dry it is up in the mountains, he will smell the herbs in it and sense the tingle of something-not-quite-there which he knows is Devon, her essence, her spirit, her magic, the closest thing to a scent she'll ever have.

"No," she says, blunt as ever, heading out of the bedroom with him. "She's not missus. Her name is Katia, but let her tell you to call her that."

Rafael

"Ms. Paredes, then," he says, and at least: at least he hasn't proposed just calling girl's mother mom. Wouldn't. He's not an idiot.

They head down the stairs. And out the door. To pick up her mother, who she loves so dearly and sees so infrequently. He knows that separation pains her. He knows she loves her mother. He knows he loves her, too, and so her pain is his. That's why he pulls her against his side. That's why he kisses her temple, firm.

"Let's go," he says.